Chapter Text
It was crowded, loud and stuffy and Michael usually liked neither of those things, but they hadn’t asked for his ID at the entrance and he was still relieved about it by the time he found a seat at the far end of the bar. He knew he didn’t look old enough to be let into such places – he was, just didn’t look it – and he always hated that awkward moment and the surprised – sometimes even suspicious – expression that’d follow him holding out that piece of plastic with slightly trembling hands.
He shook his head when the barkeeper asked if he wanted anything and turned to take in the club. The ceiling was low and there were strange metal pipes or poles in regular intervals where small tables stood towards the walls. Michael wondered if they were a design choice or structural necessity – threw a slightly nervous glance towards the low ceiling. All the tables seemed thoroughly occupied, groups of various sizes sitting on the cheap couches drinking and chatting, idly nodding along to the music or tapping their feet.
The centre back of the narrow room, however, was where the biggest crowd was – or maybe it just looked like it because the square empty space that served as a dance floor was packed with people, bodies moving and swaying to what could be the music coming too loud from the speakers but could also be something else from what Michael could tell. He felt his body tingle at the sight – could feel the energy pulsing from those people and felt the vague urge to be a part of it, to move .
He stayed put – finally ordered a sprite and settled into the seat, leaned back and let the current song wash over him. It sounded familiar, and Michael idly tried to pinpoint it as he watched the dancefloor, imagining himself moving like any of those people, giving into the pull of those sludgy guitars and let his body move the way it wanted to instead of keeping to tapping his foot – drumming his fingers against the table – as the night went on.
Michael’s eyes were closed when the quality of the music changed, the polished mixing of instruments and vocals gone for what sounded like live music. Michael opened his eyes in confusion – immediately recognising the fuzzy, distorted guitars, the blunt bass, the fast, repetitive drumming, but also recognising that the snarled vocals weren't the ones usually going with the rest, that there was just something slightly off with the instruments that didn't quite match the recorded version of the song.
The mic screeched in the wrong place and Michael craned his neck trying to figure out where the music was coming from. The previously dark slightly raised platform behind the dancefloor – a stage if one was generous with the definition – was now dimly lit and Michael could sort of make out people – a figure with long dark hair and a guitar standing in the front at the microphone, one more to each side – another guitar and the bass, Michael guessed – the drums behind them.
Michael drew closer, wanting to get a better look – wanting to catch a glimpse of the faces or the way fingers were flying over strings. And before he knew it he was in the midst of the dancing crowd – more animated even, than before – yelling along, heads jerking back and forth as they jumped – and somebody's hair brushed Michael’s arm where he had rolled up the sleeves of his dark green sweater and he froze, turned to apologise but it was impossible to tell who it was and clearly whoever it had been hadn't noticed or didn't care because nobody had stopped moving.
Somebody bumped into his shoulder from behind and before Michael could turn to apologise there was a hand on his arm and an apology being shouted into his ear. When he did turn around he was met with a friendly smile and long brown waves and Michael wasn't exactly sure how it happened but the next thing he knew was that he was moving to the music along with him – the high energy drumming making it impossible to stay still when a hand was still on his arm and the body attached to it moving again.
Michael moved awkwardly at first – self consciously – but it became more than apparent that everybody around him was doing whatever and nobody was really watching him – even the guy he ended up dancing with, if it could be called that, had his eyes closed and was mouthing along to the lyrics with a grin. And so Michael did the same – closed his eyes and simply let himself be carried by the music – the wild instrumental cacophony that followed after the last of the vocals – the end of the song.
They transitioned jerkingly into the next song – something equally energetic but nothing Michael recognised – and when he opened his eyes against the blinking lights of the dance floor, he realised how much closer to the stage he had moved by now – how the smooth-voiced vocalist had taken the mic of the stand and was walking the length of the stage as he half-drawled, half-screamed incomprehensible lyrics into the mic, his guitar gone, a forced roughness to his voice that scratched pleasantly in Michael’s ears. He was growing too warm and his arms felt clammy when he decided to take off his sweater and tie it at his waist – the air still hot, but Michael still felt less like he was overheating as he closed his eyes again and jumped along to the harsh drums.
The hand had disappeared from his arm and the friendly face with the soft waves had gotten lost in the crowd and Michael fully expected to feel awkward on his own but he wasn't on his own. He was one of the dancing crowd and it felt good to be so utterly merged with the mass, not worry about eyes being on him, judging, prying, but simply feel the music – watch the vocalist lean into the guitarists space until both were slurring lyrics into the mic and know he wasn't alone in doing so, that nobody would see and find it remarkable of him to do it.
The next hour or so passed in a rush and Michael had no clue how late it was when he noticed, standing still for the briefest moment, that he was parched and dizzy and also feeling a little stifled. The band had dispersed a couple songs ago – the music was back in the DJs hand though the microphone still stood there in case anyone wanted to take it.
Michael made his way through the violently dancing crowd – apologised for bumping into people and being bumped into by them – and eventually made it back to the bar where he grabbed another sprite and made for the back entrance he had spotted earlier.
The nights were getting bearable in temperature and Michael was so hot he probably would’ve welcomed the short relief of the freezing temperatures from a month ago. As it was, he breathed in the cool night air, exhaled slowly, half a sigh, as he leaned against the outer wall and closed his eyes to allow the dizziness to settle, allow himself to enjoy the lingering buzzing energy in his body, feel the sweat cool on his neck and arms. Michael couldn’t remember the last time he had moved this much, much less the last time he had done so for fun . There was a small smile on his lips and the music was still making his skull vibrate where it sounded through the open door and there was chatter closeby around him, a couple of people sitting together in groups or standing alone, catching some fresh air. Michael felt content.
There had been a faint scent of tobacco when Michael stepped out – many of those standing outside were smoking – but it suddenly grew a lot more potent and Michael opened his eyes in confusion. Somebody was leaning beside him – not too close, but close enough for the smoke from his cigarette to burn in Michael’s nose. Close enough for Michael to recognise him as the vocalist from the stage earlier. He tried not to look too obviously, but Michael did want to get a closer look at him.
Without the stage lights, with his hands devoid of both microphone and guitar, Michael thought he looked tired. Weary, even. It looked so very different from the raw energy on stage that Michael doubted whether this was him for a moment. He held the cigarette limply between his fingers, his eyes closed, body supported by the wall behind him and all of that was such a far cry to the way he had gripped both his guitar and the microphone with such energy as he moved on stage. But Michael also knew it had to be him. The small eyes on his knuckles, elbows and shoulders Michael had glimpsed when he had gotten closer to the stage were clear in the dim light from the door. He had the same long, artificially black hair, was wearing the same ripped, old jeans and black, sleeveless t-shirt. It had to be him.
"D'you want one?"
It took a moment for Michael to realise the mumbled, smooth-voiced question was for him. He was looking at Michael, nodded at the cigarette between his fingers when Michael finally understood and met – hesitantly – the pretty brown eyes the stage lights had reflected in so distractingly.
"Uh...no, thanks."
He raised an eyebrow, slowly, deliberately. Michael noticed the light catch in the metal towards its end, where the thick brow grew thinner. "Do you need something else?"
"No?"
"You were staring like you might."
Michael felt his face heat up and quickly looked away. "Oh, sorry. I...you were on stage. Earlier." He bit his lip at the stupid statement and made an effort to look anywhere but at the figure beside him.
"I was." The smoke hit Michael more directly this time. He must have turned his head to face him. "You were in there? How old are you?"
Michael recognised the sceptical tone, could visualise the frown. Even with him having to look up at Michael, there had to be something about Michael’s face that made him doubtful.
Michael rolled his eyes and turned towards him again, exhausted. "Old enough ."
He didn't even care about the defensive tone, not this time. Michael was having a good night and he refused to stay quietly polite as usual at this stupid question.
It was worth the confused, surprised expression on the guy's face. Worth even the burst of laughter that followed a split second later. Michael felt a strange mix of embarrassment and pride push away his irritation and eventually couldn't help but chuckle himself.
"Okay, sorry. That was a stupid question."
Michael grinned slightly. "You’re self-aware."
Another delighted, surprised expression passed his features. "Sometimes," he said with a wink. "Would you accept an apology drink?"
"I don't drink."
He raised an eyebrow. "What, at all? Are you a cactus?"
"I– what? That's not– I mean–"
A grin. "A coke? Some juice?"
Michael could feel his face grow warm. "I think some water."
"Good." He put out his cigarette against the wall and moved towards the door. "You can call me Gerry, by the way."
Michael gave a small smile and followed. "Michael."